Bill leaned against the brick wall, checking his watch. "Molly, it’s eleven o'clock. The caterers are already dead drunk, the bouncy castle is deflating. We’re crashing a toddler birthday." "It's not a toddler birthday, you heinous dullard. It’s the Bar Mitzvah of the century, likely funded by a crypto-scammer. We are looking at a minimum of four thousand dollars in unmarked, cash-in-the-envelope-style gifts, plus whatever legal tender they decided to wrap in tissue paper." "You’re obsessed with the cash." Bill adjusted his glasses. "Last time we went in, we barely escaped the clutches of a very angry toddler throwing a partial corn muffin. We could be in handcuffs by the time the ice cream truck comes around." "We use the distraction, Bill. The silence is key. We need a visual deterrent that screams 'stay back' without actually hurting a single soul. No pressure cookers, no bleach grenades. We go soft. Very soft." "You mean you want to tie up the parents again? Molly, we don't even know how to tie a double knot anymore!" "I’ll do it. It’s the kidnap niche I never explored. Besides, look at the security." Molly pointed a gloved finger across the street. The white picket fence glowed under the streetlamp, a beacon of suburban innocence. Behind it, a fleet of beat-up station wagons and a single sensible sedan sat parked like sentinels guarding national secrets. "They’ve brought in the heavy artillery," Bill whispered, scrutinizing the Subaru. "A Range Rover with tinted windows. That’s a diplomatic envoy. Or someone selling insurance door-to-door. It’s terrifying." "It’s insurance money from a botched skydiving accident. Or a very specific gambling problem. Either way, they have coverage. It means they have presents. It means we take." "What if the cake is there? The cake is arguably the most valuable commodity in the solar system. We take the cake?" "The cake is the fuel. It lubricates the wheels of theft. We take the loot, we eat the slice of red velvet cut out from the center, and we vanish like smoke." "But what about the parents?" "We leave them a note. 'Thanks for the loot, your gifts are now safer in our possession until you learn to pay proper ransom.' Something classy." "Ransom? They’re a family having a birthday party!" "It’s a forced gifting, Bill. It’s art." "If we get caught, I’m telling the judge we were forced. By your stupidity." "Fine. Enter through the doggy door. Assuming they have a small enough dog to fit in a laundry hamper." "That’s our plan? A game of Tetris with the Golden Retriever?" "It’s tactical positioning. Now, come on. The shiny-wrapping paper is counting down the minutes." Bill looked genuinely horrified. "Molly, we are not stealing LEGOs. The Federation of Mothers will hunt us down." "Specifically the Darth Vader Lego set," she corrected, crouching down to peer through the gap in the fence. "That thing is worth four hundred bucks. We drop him in a pillowcase and we’re good for a month’s rent." "We are not becoming master thieves over plastic bricks. The loot is the gift cards. The gift cards. We take the envelopes. We don't touch the toys. The toys are traps. They snap, they break things, they traumatize the dogs." "Boring," she groaned, kicking a discarded pizza box. "I want the squeaky toys. I want the giant inflatable rubber duck that serves no purpose other than occupying forty square feet of valuable real estate. We deflate it. It fits in the bag. We become a turtle. A thief-turtle." Bill rubbed his temples. "You want to infiltrate a suburban fortress wearing a deflated rubber duck. That is exactly how you get caught on the news." "It’s silence of the lambs, Bill. The duck is my muzzle. Come on. The candles are lit. That’s always the signal to move."